


The Hearts of the Fathers

by keepcalmsmile



Series: The Hearts of the Fathers [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Season/Series 13, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmsmile/pseuds/keepcalmsmile
Summary: For the November 2, 2017 Oh Sam Comment MemePrompt "Reverse Mystery Spot situation: Dean is the one who has to watch Sam die repeatedly, for whatever reason."





	The Hearts of the Fathers

“Give him to me. Give me my _son_!”

Dean looks at the devil, with his furious, red-rimmed eyes. The “yes,” is ready to fall from his tongue. Maybe Sam and Cas could have saved Jack if Lucifer hadn’t escaped from next-door’s apocalypse, and maybe they couldn’t have. But now, surely, it was only a matter of time before Lucifer got what he wanted.

“D’n.”

Dean’s eyes follow the voice. Sam’s a bloody heap on the asphalt between Dean and the devil, and isn’t a metaphor for their whole fucking lives. There’s an ugly cut over his right cheekbone, a red, angry scrape across his left where his face had first met the asphalt, and blood is flowing freely from both his nostrils. In an hour, livid bruises would be covering the rest of his face and torso from where Lucifer’s boots and fists had tried to beat Jack’s location out of him.

“D-“ Sam begins again, only this time, he shudders and the word turns into a cough. Blood trickles from Sam’s mouth, and he curls in on himself, hands pressed against his stomach in a miserable attempt to keep his guts from falling out. 

Sam won’t have bruises in an hour, because in a little over a minute he’ll be dead.

“Just one word Dean,” Lucifer croons. He crouches down and strokes Sam’s hair. Even while dying, Sam flinches away, and Dean tries to move, tries to run and throw himself between his little brother and the devil. His body refuses to obey. He can only move his mouth and even though he knew that’s what would happen, Dean can’t stop his howl of fury.

“D’n,” Sam gasps and Dean meets his eyes. They half order, half plea, and the “yes” slides back down Dean’s throat.

Dean once let his brother die at the devil’s hand and swore he’d never do it again.

“Deeeaan,” Lucifer sings.

Dean swallows, “No.”

 

* * *

 

A stream of lights and sirens blare past the motel window, and Dean opens his eyes. “What is that, the third time this night?” he grumbles.

“At least,” Sam answers from the other bed.

“How the hell does anyone get any sleep in a city?” Dean mutters, rubbing his eyes. He doesn’t mind, honestly. That had been one shitty nightmare, even by his standards. 

They are in Phile, ostensibly tracing a lead on the devil, but mostly making noise while Cas hides Jack. Now that Lucifer is back in their dimension, keeping him separated from his son is crucial. Cas and Sam believe Jack’s powers aren’t mature enough to go against his father. Dean’s a bit more worried about Lucifer’s ability to lure Jack to the dark side. The battle plan's the same either way.

“I still don’t think he’ll be here,” Sam says, “What does Phile have that he could possibly want?”

 _Us_ Dean thinks, but instead he says, “Maybe he wants to see the Liberty Bell.”

Sam huffs a laugh, “Speaking of, you think we’ll have time to drop by Independence Hall for half an hour? It’s November, so the lines shouldn’t be bad.”

Dean frowns, “You already asked me that.”

“What? Not I didn’t.”

“Sure you did. Last time the sirens woke us up at like 4:30.”

“Dean, it’s 4:30 _now_.”

Dean leans over and looks at the ugly alarm clock on the table between them. Sure enough, the red numbers say 4:35.

“What the hell?” Dean mutters.

“Dean, you okay?” Sam says cautiously.

“I’m fine. Just those fucking sirens, giving me déjà vu or whatever.”

“You sure . . .”

“Positive. I’m going back to sleep now.”

And he does . . . eventually.

 

* * *

 

Dean figures the nightmare and the sirens messed with him more than he thought because he has that same, bizarre déjà vu feeling the entire morning. Sam turns the news on as they get dressed and pack up, and Dean swears he’s heard the story about the eight year old who saved her older brother from drowning before. . . but local news stations are all the same.

So are all breakfast buffets in crappy motels, although Dean thinks the middle-aged woman sitting at the table in front of them might be tailing them.

“Dude what’s with you?” Sam asks when Dean mentions it. “That woman's wearing hello kitty slippers and is definitely high!”

“I’m just saying, keep an eye out. I _swear_ I’ve seen her before.”

Sam frowns, brow furrowing in thought.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Nothing,” Sam says, “At least, I think it’s nothing.”

The weird Twilight-Zone feeling stays with Dean the entire drive downtown, leaving him thoroughly pissed off.

“Might as well start off at the police station,” Sam says.

“Unless it’s closed today.”

“It’s 9-o-clock on a Wednesday morning,” Sam says, “By the time we get through traffic, it’ll probably be closer to ten. Why the hell wouldn’t it be open?”

“Dunno,” Dean says and he doesn’t, “Maybe a pipe burst or something.”

He has no idea why he says _that_ either. He can tell Sam’s freaking out a little, and he is too, if he’s honest, but that’s just more reason to get to the station.

He can’t even pretend to be surprised when they pull up to an empty parking lot. Sam gets out before the Impala stops moving and runs up to read the neon yellow sign on the door then dashes back just as Dean closes his door behind him.

“Okay what the actual fuck?” Sam demands, “How did you know? _How did you know?_ ”

“I don’t . . . it just felt familiar . . . everything today since the sirens woke us up that last time has just felt weird . . . like it’s happened before.”

Dean’s not sure how he expects Sam to react to that, but he doesn’t expect his brother to go sheet white, “Dean. We gotta go. Now.”

Sam’s right. He’s right because he standing on cracked asphalt that’s soon going to be covered with his blood, because any second now . . .

“Hey there boys.”

Lucifer appears with his hands already clenched around the collar of Sam’s jacket. Dean can’t move, can’t do anything except watch Lucifer throw Sam to the ground. Sam raises his head and Dean sees a familiar scrape across his left cheek.

“You know,” Lucifer says thoughtfully, “The closest I ever got to watching HBO in the cage was reliving Mystery Spot with good ol’ Sammy here,” he kicks Sam sharply twice in the chest, forcing him back to the ground, “And since I don’t have my son to take care of . . . I might as well enjoy the sequel.” He snaps his fingers, and Sam’s hands fly to his throat.

“I’m making this so much easier for you Dean,” Lucifer says as Sam suffocates, “Than Gabriel did for Sammy. No riddles. No games. Just tell me where my boy is, and I end this. I’ll even let you both live,” he shrugs, “At least until you get in my way again.”

All the blood is rushing to Sam’s head and he’s pulling fruitlessly at his collar. The only thing, the _only_ thing, that will get them out of this is if Dean . . .

He catches Sam’s eyes. His little brother give him one, desperate shake of his head and . . .

“No,” Dean whispers.

“Oh well,” Lucifer says, “Guess we'll try again today.”

Sam goes still.

 

* * *

 

The next time the sirens wake him, Dean leaps out of bed and shakes his brother. “Sam! Sammy!”

“Dean what the hell!” Sam demands, batting his hands away.

“Mystery spot. Lucifer. We gotta go.”

“What are you . . .”

“Mystery spot!” Dean yells, “In Florida, with Gabriel, remember?”

“Yea, Dean. I remember,” Sam says coolly, “Why the hell are you . . .”

“Because it’s happening again except Lucifer’s controlling it and he’s doing it to you!”

Sam freezes, “How many times?”

“Twice now.”

Sam closes his eyes and nods his head as if that’s a relief, as if Dean’s _only_ watched Lucifer torture his little brother to death twice.

“He wants Jack,” Sam says quietly.

“Yea,” Dean says, “We can chat about it on our way to literally anywhere else.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Dean,” Sam says, but he switches on the light and pulls a flannel over his t-shirt.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I bullied you onto at least half a dozen planes going everywhere from Cincinnati to Greece, and you died every time. There’s no escaping this.”

“Bullshit,” Dean snaps, “How’d you break the loop with Gabriel.”

Sam sighs, “I begged.”

Out of everything that could have come out of Sam’s mouth, that was the last thing Dean expected, “You what?”

“I begged,” Sam says, “I watched you die _dozens_  of times and then, at the end, he made it . . .” Sam took a shuddering breath, “I thought it was permanent, so I spent six months tracking him down and when I finally did, he said he was trying to teach me a lesson, about how the bad guys knew we were each other’s weaknesses, that it’d be the death of us. I didn’t listen. I just begged him to bring you back and . . . he did.”

Dean forces a smile on his face, “Well good thing we’ve got a lot more experience taking on these bastards this time round.”

“Dean. You’ve gotta listen to me,” Sam’s got that look now, that I-need-to-jump-in-the-cage-or-close-the-gates-of-hell-and-you’re-gonna-let-me look. “Whatever happens-“

“I’m not doing this, Sam,” Dean growls, “We’re not going to just sit back and take this.”

“Of course not, but Dean. You have to say no.”

“Sam . . .”

“Promise me, Dean. Promise me you’ll _always say no_.”

“Sammy . . .”

Sam’s neck twists and cracks, and he falls to the floor.

“He always gets so pissy,” Lucifer says from the doorway, “So Dean-o. What do you say?”

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head.

 

* * *

 

Battery acid. Razer wire. Hot oil. Semi-truck. The devil is nothing if not creative.

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” Lucifer croons while holding Sam’s head into a kiddy pool. “You know as well as I that your brother and your pet angel can't keep my son away from me, not for long.”

Blood oozes from a bullet hole in Sam’s gut. Lucifer sits on the hood of the Impala reading a tabloid, “Why are you fighting me? You know better than anyone that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Do you think you’re brave, that you’re helping him?” Lucifer tosses a handful of popcorn in his mouth as two feral dogs trap Sam in an alley.

“Sam’s never known what’s good for him,” Lucifer doesn’t feign amusement now, just fixes Dean with an icy glare as a child with black eyes stabs Sam with the demon-killing knife over and over and over.

Lucifer’s not wrong. Sam never knows what’s good for him. He pushes too hard, crosses every line to get what he wants, trusts too much too fast, and never knows when to give up.

He also loves with a love that defies the combined wills of heaven and hell. That love saved the world, saved Dean countless times, and it will save Jack, so long as Dean doesn’t fuck this up.

“No,” he says.

“Your choice,” the devil shrugs.

 

* * *

 

Lucifer gets more creative, brings out cattle prods, razers, acid, and whips.

“Who doesn’t like to play with their food before they eat it?” he asks, and pulls out another of Sam’s fingernails.

 

When Dean wakes up after watching Lucifer burn Sam alive, he immediately shoots his brother in the head.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Lucifer says softly as blood leaks onto Sam’s pillow.

Sam's next death was the first that made Dean beg.

 

“Promise me, Dean. Promise me you’ll always say _no_ ,” Sam demands for possibly the five hundredth time.

“No!” Dean snaps, “I don’t promise!”

“Dean!”

“Don’t _Dean_ me! You don’t know what it’s like! Watching over and over again as that bastard . . .” Dean stops before he starts crying . . . _again._

Sam, the kind, thoughtful, self-righteous bastard that he is, softens, “I know, Dean. I know it’s hell. It’s worse than hell. I watched you die from a fucking taco and there wasn’t anything I could—“

“A taco!” Dean roars, “A taco! This isn’t fucking Gabriel who fucking traps us in shitty TV shows and ending up saving our asses in the end! This is the fucking Devil!”

“Dean. Listen . . .”

“No _you_ listen Sam! I know the size, shape, and color of your spleen! Don’t pretend this is the same fucking thing! I can’t fucking _beg_ my way out of this! The only thing, the _only thing_ I can do to save you is give Lucifer his fucking son!”

 _Shit_ Dean feels tears on his face again and angrily wipes them away. Sam looks seconds away from waterworks too, and that’s just not fucking allowed. Winchesters don’t cry, and they definitely don’t cry together.  

“You won’t,” Sam says quietly, calmly.

“Oh yea!” Dean snarls, “Why’s that?”

Sam smiles, and the smile’s half proud, half sad, “Because you’re a selfless bastard that can’t bring yourself to disappoint me, and you’ll never willingly put a child in danger.”

“That right, Sam?” Lucifer says from the other side of the room.

Sam flinches, but lifts his head and meets the devil’s eyes, “That’s right.”

Lucifer shrugs and pulls out a small, silver knife. “If you say so, bucko. Now Dean, do you have something to tell me, or should we take another look at Sam’s spleen?”

The “yes” all but claws its way out of his mouth.

Sam gives him the same proud, sad smile, and the word dies on Dean's tongue.

 

* * *

 

“It’s a shame the world’s largely abandoned crucifixion,” Lucifer wraps an arm companionably around Dean’s shoulders. They’re both looking up at Sam, who’s hanging from a cross fashioned out of a wooden electrical line pole and a couple 2x4s. The crowd of demons who stripped him, beat him, and nailed him to the cross laugh and jeer every time Sam shifts and screams as much as his frozen, hoarse lungs allow.

“Sometimes the Romans would get bored and hurry the process along by breaking the criminal’s legs,” Lucifer says, “But we’ve got time, don’t we Dean-o?”

It’s been eight hours since the horde of demons descended on them, seven since they lifted Sam on the cross, and the stubborn bastard refuses to die.

 

“Little Sammy Winchester,” Lucifer shakes his head and finally, _finally_ pulls away, “Always putting his faith in the wrong places.  Dean, why don’t you save your brother some pain for once?”

Dean’s beyond words now, and far, far beyond tears. He just watches as a crow lands on his brother’s shoulder for the tenth time. Sam tries to shake it off, but he’s too weak, and the crow just starts pecking at one of the thorns in his hair.

Dean watches and tries to remember life before this endless nightmare, tries to remember Cas’s awkward questions, Jodi’s warm hugs, and –Chuck help him—Jack’s small smile. He tries to remember Sam’s laugh, Sam’s snark, Sam falling asleep at the kitchen table with a half-finished cup of tea and the latest _Game of Thrones_ book.

Most of all, he tries to remember why he couldn’t say yes, why he couldn’t say yes _for Sam’s sake._

The memories slip through his mind like water, and Dean wonders how much longer he can be selfless.

 

“Father.”

Lucifer whirls around. Dean tries to do the same, but Lucifer’s power continues to hold him in place.

“Son,” Lucifer says. Dean knows the devil’s voice like his own now, has heard his rage, his glee, his boredom, his curiosity, his wrath, and yet he’s never heard this.

“Son,” Lucifer repeats, and it’s not love Dean hears, but it is . . . softness.

“Father . . . what’s happening?”

“I’ve been looking for you my son,” Lucifer says, “I’ve been looking everywhere for _you_!”

“I am . . . here now,” Jack says slowly, the way he always does when he’s trying to work something out. Dean can practically see his brow furrow in thought. He wonders if Jack picked that up from Sam.

“Where’s the Winchester’s pet angel?”

“Gone,” Jack says, all the reasons Dean hates this kid rise furiously in his chest, “I . . . left him. I wanted to find you.”

“And you did,” Lucifer says . . . warmly? “Come and give your Dad a hug!”

Jack’s slow, hesitant steps echo on the pavement. The demons have stopped jeering now. They’ve all turned to stare at their king greeting his son. If he strains his ears, Dean thinks he can make out Sam’s ragged breaths.

“That’s right,” Lucifer whispers, “Come here and say hi to your old Dad.”

Jack doesn’t respond, but Dean assumes the silence that follows means he obeys. Dean's heart thuds, a strange mixture of anger, fear, and a traitorous ounce of hope burning in his chest. If Jack decided to ditch Cas and find his real Father, they were all fucked. If he didn’t, if there was—God help them—a plan, they may have a chance. _Sam_ may have a chance.

He tries to get Sam's attention, but Sam’s got his eyes clenched shut, and all his focus on his trembling breaths. Dean doubts he’s even realized Jack’s here, and isn’t that a cold, sick irony.

“Well Dean,” Lucifer says, sauntering into view, arm tight around Jack’s shoulder now, “You must have known it would end this way. No one can separate a father from his son for long.”

Jack gives Dean a puzzled frown. He’s not leaning into Lucifer’s embrace, but he’s not pulling away from it either, “What would end this way?”

“This,” Lucifer gestures dramatically at Sam, “No matter how many times Dean watched his Sammy die, he still wouldn’t tell me where he hid you, but he should have known nothing could keep us apart for long.”

“I’ve read about this,” Jack gently pulls away from Lucifer and takes a step towards Sam, “Dean gave me a book.”

Lucifer snorts, “Propaganda. I assure you both Jesus and Sam deserved what they got.”

“Why?”

Anger flashes across Lucifer’s eyes, but he quickly subdues it again, “Because they’re both self-righteous bastards who meddled in places they didn't belong.”

“Jack!” Dean shouts, “Jack, listen to me. If you ever, even for one second, felt _anything_ for Sam, you gotta get him down from there.”

“Look how he grovels, now that he needs you,” Lucifer sneers, “I hear he wasn’t nearly so kind when _you_ were alone and scared.”

“If you’re pissed at me, I get it,” Dean says, “But Sam! Sam was nothing but good to you. He’s given everything for you. He’s fucking died for you dozens of times and-”

“I’ve had enough of you poisoning my son’s mind,” Lucifer says, and the words die in Dean’s throat. His tongue feels like a heavy stone, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t move it, can’t make a single sound.

“Well, Dean,” Lucifer smirks as Dean shouts silently at a stunned-looking Jack, “Looks like we’ll need to hurry this process along after all. He snaps his fingers, and Dean’s limbs unfreeze. Before he registers what’s happened, half a dozen demons are dragging him to Sam. He tries to fight, he really does, but his limbs obey him about as well as Han Solo’s did after he was frozen in Carbonite.

“Good bye, Dean,” Lucifer calls as the demons force him to his knees in front of Sam. One of the demons approach holding a crowbar, and before Dean can do anything, before he even registers what’s happening, it slams the bar just below Sam’s right knee.

Dean had thought that Sam had lost the ability to really scream hours ago, but he's wrong. Sam’s eyes snap open and he _screams_ , a primal, throat-shredding howl of senseless agony, and nothing, not any of his other horrible deaths, not even the deepest pits of hell, had prepared Dean for that sound.

The demon struck Sam’s other leg, and all Dean knew was screaming. His little brother’s primal cries mixed with his own howls of fury, then with the shrieks of a dozen others.

It isn’t until the demons holding Dean down collapse all at once that he realizes that he shouldn’t be able to make a sound at all. 

He jumps to his feet and whirls around. Jack and Lucifer are standing across from each other. Jack’s eyes glow gold, and waves of power ripple like waves and the howling wind from his body. Lucifer’s eyes burn red, his face contorted in fury, and perhaps a trace of fear.

“What are you doing?” he snarls.

“You’re hurting them!” Jack roars back.

“They’re cockroaches that tried to keep you from me!”

“They’re family!” another wave of power, stronger than all the rest, erupts from Jack, throwing Dean to the ground and forcing Lucifer to stumble back. The cross creaks, and when Dean looks up, the nails disappear from Sam’s hands and feet.

Dean gets to his feet just in time to control Sam’s fall. He’s a jumble of torn flesh and broken bones, and Dean wonders if Sam’s aware of _anything_ , of Jack, of Lucifer, of him . . . that he’s even finally of that fucking cross.

“FAMILY!” Lucifer raises his hand, “This is what happens when you choose vermin as family!”

“No.” Jack says coldly, “This is what happens when you hurt them.” He raises a clenched fist, the wind buffets Dean’s body like a hurricane, and he throws himself over Sam to shield him from the hurtling debris.

Lucifer laughs, “You’re not strong enough,” he begins, but Jack just raises his other fist, and the laugh dies in the devil’s throat. Instead, he screams, the same primal, desperate scream that’s still falling from Sam’s lips. Lucifer’s screams reach the same crescendo as the howling wind, and gold light explodes from his eyes and mouth and illuminate every bone in his body.

He _screams_ , and Dean’s sure his ears are bleeding from the sound of it.

Then, all at once, the screaming stops, the wind dies, and Lucifer’s empty vessel crumples to the ground.

Silence descends with a vengeance, and Jack turns and stares at Dean, wide-eyed and scared like the child he is.

Sam’s scream breaks the silence, and Dean hurriedly sits up and takes in the damage.

His little brother’s legs are shattered, twisted in unnatural angles. Blood oozes from his palms and fee. His back is shredded. His skin looks and feels like ice, and several of his fingers and toes are black from frostbite. His breath come in small light puffs that can’t possibly be bringing enough oxygen to that massive body.

 Dean quickly strips to his chest, ignoring the biting cold, wraps his jacket clumsily around Sam’s head, and starts tearing his shirt into bandages.

“Sam?” Jack whispers, stumbling forward and falling to his knees besides them. Up close, Dean realizes that Jack’s trembling. Blood drips from his nose, and he he's just as pale as Sam. Dean doesn’t know if it’s from exhaustion, terror, shock, or a little bit of all of them. It doesn’t really matter.

“Jack!” he snaps, and Jack looks up.

“You need to heal him,” Dean orders, “ _Now!_ ”

Jack slowly shakes his head, “I can’t . . . I . . . I don’t know how.”

“What? And you knew how to deep-fry your Dad before you did it?” Jack flinches, but Dean doesn't care, “Sam will _die_ if you don't do this!”

“Castiel . . .”

“Isn’t here!” Dean grabs Jack’s hand and places in on Sam’s forehead, “Come on, kid, save our asses one more time!”

“Castiel!” Jack repeats desperately.

“I’m here,” Cas says, appearing on Jack’s other side and ignoring Dean's stunned stare, “You’re doing fine.” 

“I don’t . . . I’ll _break him_!”

“You won’t,” Cas says.

“Cas, can you just fix him already!” Dean demands.

“Jack must do this, Dean," Cas says firmly, and he looks back at Jack, “Remember a time you and Sam were together, when you were both safe. Can you do that?”

Jack takes a deep, shuddering breath and nods.

Cas smiles, “Good, now let that memory guide you. Don’t force anything, just let yourself heal.”

Jack nods again and closes his eyes. At first, Dean thinks nothing is happening, but then the bruises littering Sam’s body begin to fade, the cuts seal themselves, and his legs straighten. The crown of thorns on Sam’s head crumbles to dust, and the wounds in his hands and feet disappear. Sam’s cries turn into sobs, which in turn become even breaths.

When a flush returns to Sam’s face, Jack  leans his head against Cas’ shoulder, and closes his eyes, “He needs rest.”

Cas nods, “As does Dean, and you, shortly after.

Jacks nods heavily, “Can you help me, Father?”

Cas smiles softly, “Of course, my son.”

 

* * *

 

The next time Dean opens his eyes, it’s to the quiet _tic toc_ of a clock. He bolts up anyway, searching expecting to find Lucifer’s scowl, Lucifer’s laugh, Lucifer’s hands around Sam’s throat.

Instead, all he finds is Sam, fast asleep in his own bed and Jack perched anxiously on Sam’s desk chair, pulled up close enough for his knees to brush the mattress.

“What, where . . .” Dean begins hoarsely. He clears his throat and tries again, “How long have I been asleep?”

“14 hours, 22 minutes, and 7 seconds,” Jack says promptly, “You were both very tired.”

“Right,” Dean says slowly. He closes his eyes again, trying to make sense of the jumble of memories vying for attention in his brain. Sam hanging on the cross. Jack appearing. Sam screaming. Jack _killing Lucifer_ . . .

Jack healing Sam.

The thought of Sam’s torn and shattered body propels Dean off the old cot he had been sleeping on. Jack immediately leaps off the chair, but Dean shakes his head.

“Your fine.”

Jack nods and sinks back into the chair. Dean sits on the other side of Sam’s bed and watches the gentle rise and fall of his brother’s chest. He’s curled in the sheets, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. The worried lines that usually gather in his forehead and tug at his eyes, even in sleep, are gone for now. Dean doubts he’s seen Sam this peaceful in years.

It’s so different from everything Dean’s known for weeks and months now, when Sam was nearly always terrified and in pain. If Dean didn’t feel the weight of each of Sam’s deaths in his bones, he would have almost thought they never happened.

He can feel Jack’s terrified stare, so he says, more to break the silence than out of real interest, “I don’t remember anything after you healed Sam.”

Jack flushes, “Father said you needed rest, so I put you to sleep. He says I should have told you first.”

“Would have been nice, yea,” Dean says. He runs his hands gently around Sam’s brow, lifts the back of his shirt, traces, runs his hand down his leg and traces his palms and the center of his feet.

Sam doesn’t have so much as a scar. Dean lets out a slow sigh and holds his face in his hands until he trusts himself not to cry.

“How did you find us?” he asks finally.

Jack squirms again, “Fa-Lucifer had been whispering to me in my dreams. He told me that he was his real father, that you and Sam and Cas were trying to me from you because you were frightened of what we could do together. He told me to find him.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” It’s half question, half demand.

“I . . . I didn’t want you to think I was a monster,” Jack says, “And when Castiel realized you and Sam were missing, he left and told me to stay where I was, to keep hiding.”

“And I’m guessing that pissed you off,” Dean says. There's no accusation in his words.

“The whispers were louder, when I was alone,” Jack says quietly, “I decided I should be allowed to meet my real—Lucifer, to decide for myself.”

“So you teleported straight to him,” Dean completes.

“I didn’t want to be a freak anymore,” Jack says, “I thought that maybe with Lucifer . . . but then I saw Sam, and it made Lucifer so _happy_ to hurt him, and when I heard Sam scream I . . .”

“You did good,” Dean says as Jack swallows wipes his eyes, “You did real good. Sam was right about you the whole time, and I was being a dick. I should have given you a chance.”

“But you didn’t tell Lucifer where I was, not even after what he did to Sam,” Jack frowns, “I don’t understand.”

“Honestly? Mostly because Sam begged me not to.”

Jacks frown only deepens, “But why would he do that?”

“I told you,” Dean says, “When Sam believes, he goes all in. He’ll rip out his own heart for someone he cares about.”

“I don’t deserve that,” Jack’s voice catches like he’s about to sob,

“Hey kid—Jack—it’s alright,” Dean says, “That was Sam’s call to make and . . .” Dean watches Sam’s chest rise and fall, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve it more than you think you do.”

Jack doesn't answer, just slumps over in his chair, resting his head awkwardly on the side of Sam’s mattress.

Dean narrows his eyes, “Have you slept since you iced the devil?”

“Father told me to . . .”

“Yea, well I’m telling you too,” Dean says firmly, “You’re still less than a year old, Jack, and all one-year-olds need naps.”

Jack sits up, but glances anxiously at Sam, and Dean understands.

“You can take the cot until Sam wakes up.” 

Jack hesitates for a second but obeys, curling under the rough army blanket with his head still facing Sam. It takes less than a minute for his face to clear and his breathing to even out.

Dean shakes his head ruefully and takes Jack’s place in Sam’s chair. He could go grab a beer, maybe a sandwich and a magazine. He could find Cas and ask how he found them in time, of if Jack just pulled him there, like he'd pulled him from the empty. After all, Sam’s safe, the devil’s dead, and Jack’s saved them in ways Dean will never be able to repay.

Still, the thought of leaving Sam—leaving _them_ —makes Dean’s stomach twist.

Instead, Dean folds his arms, settles more comfortably in the chair, and watches his brothers breathe.

There will be time for the rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> You might be asking, where's Mary and Michael? Honestly, I don't know. I like both their characters, they just didn't fit in this story :/
> 
> Also, you may have noticed that all I want from Season 13 is Dean and Jack working together to protect Sam.


End file.
